


Another Opportunity

by Alasse_Irena



Category: Ancient History RPF
Genre: Gen, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_Irena/pseuds/Alasse_Irena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it takes several lifetimes for Hannibal and Scipio to arrange a dinner date. Reincarnation AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevenofspade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenofspade/gifts).



> Thank you to sevenofspade for the fantastic assignment. I had a great deal of fun writing it
> 
> Thank you also to Alice_Majella, for a wealth of information and resources on the Second Punic War, an adorable slideshow about how to use ancient Roman names which I didn't end up needing, and for receiving all my "HELP THIS FIC IS AWFUL" emails with good grace.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, sevenofspade! I hope this is to your liking.

i.

It's a breathing space, Scipio thinks: the long second at the top of a pendulum swing before gravity reasserts itself. He will always remember this evening in Ephesus as a long gold-tinted summer afternoon, where dust-motes hang sunlit in the still air, and nothing seems to have changed since his childhood.

He's never seen a face quite like Hannibal's before – a sharp, hungry face like that one – and he knows better than anyone that there's a mind behind it to match.

“Hannibal Barca,” he says. It feels like a long time since they've spoken – but they've been communicating for years, in the movement of infantry, the preparation of ambushes. War is a language. “I could find the time to share a meal with you.”

Hannibal laughs, which is strange, because Scipio is used to guessing at the other man's feelings across a blood-stained field, not seeing them on his face. “It would be my pleasure,” says Hannibal, “but I hardly think my wishes come into it.”

This is a political negotiation, Scipio reminds himself, this meeting in Ephesus. It's all too easy to picture them as boys – that ungainly age barely before the boundary of adulthood: not yet old enough for responsibility. It feels less like a fantasy than a memory – something he long ago forgot.

He swallows the image. “Consider it a diplomatic meeting.”

Hannibal's lips press together into something which might be a smile, half-hidden. “They would worry you'd murder me.”

“That would be an unsatisfying end to such a long acquaintance.”

The smile widens, a lightning flash of white teeth. “Acquaintance,” says Hannibal, completely uninflected. “I suppose you could call it that.”

It's a small word for the space between the two men. Incomplete. “I'm willing to compromise,” Scipio says. “I accept alternative suggestions.”

Scipio tells himself that Hannibal is not biting his lip like a nervous child. “I could call it friendship.”

“On the battlefield?”

“Over dinner.” Hannibal glances over his shoulder, as though his responsibilities are tangibly catching up with him. “But some other time.”

Scipio nods. Another opportunity will arise someday.

 

ii.

Scipio had taken the anonymous tip on a hunch, and was gratified when nobody told him it was a trap. People trust his instincts these days, ever since he solved the Schleifer case.

He's young, for a private investigator, but by this point it's stopped bothering people. The only thing anyone says on the topic is, “He's older than his years,” and that's rarely. You're much more likely to hear, “There's something uncanny about him,” or, more probable again, “My God, he's ruthless.”

The warehouse has a small door, almost at water level, which is open, as Scipio was promised over the telephone. The padlock swings with the movement of the door, and Scipio catches it to stop it clanking against the metal as he ducks through into the dark. The first thing he notices is the smell of rust and cold; he can't see where the ceiling in this low light, but somewhere, the drip of water gives back a faint echo.

The sound of his footsteps in this still air would be unmistakable to anyone listening, not to mention the light that his torch gives off; if this warehouse isn't empty, they're sure to know he's here. He reaches for the gun in his jacket, just in case.

Somewhere, voices, then running footsteps. Scipio swings his torch around in the direction of the noise, and it beams yellow light onto damp concrete. Not even a flicker of shadow gives him any hint of what he just heard. Part of him wants to call out, but he stifles it.

What happens next seems to come in reverse order. The shock hits him first: there is a strangely slow second where he wonders whether he's been shot, before he registers a blunt impact to the back of his head. He doesn't remember hearing a gunshot.

The floor underneath him is cold and hard, and he's not sure, but it seems like his torch is getting dimmer.

The pain is the last thing to he remembers before he loses consciousness. He honestly doesn't know what being shot would feel like

***

“Well, well, well.” It's gentle, educated voice. “The man himself.” Scipio's head aches like it hasn't since the morning after Guy's wedding, but he forces himself to open his eyes. This is the man he's been looking for all this time.

The infamous Hannibal Barca has an easy smile, sharp features, dark skin. Scipio, totally without meaning to, feels his lips curve upwards too. He'd known it was a good tip. “The one and only,” he says.

He is wearing an impeccably tailored suit, but something Hannibal's appearance leaves Scipio wrong-footed. “You were bigger,” he says. He sounds like a confused child. He blames the concussion for this statement, and rewords it so it makes sense. “I thought you'd be bigger.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, and Scipio squints through his headache to decide if this expression is what novelists call a smirk. “I'm big enough where it counts.”

Scipio does not admit to himself that his face is warm; and nor does allowing this man to make him blush embarrass him further.

He tries to make some sort of dismissive gesture, and finds his hands bound securely behind his back. “Ah,” he says, pulling a face. His head hurts like hell, but he congratulates himself on a remarkable job of not letting it show.

“Besides, I'm not the one grovelling on the floor.”

Scipio has to concede the point. He flexes his fingers, trying to gauge the likelihood on wriggling out of his bonds unnoticed. “Why am I here, then?”

“I've been waiting to meet you,” says Hannibal. He reaches inside his jacket, and Scipio's breath catches in his throat. Hannibal crosses the room in two easy steps.

The muzzle of the pistol is cold against Scipio's skin. “Pleasure to meet you too, Hannibal,” he says, and he is startled by how easy it is to keep his voice steady.

“I always liked you,” says Hannibal.

Scipio blinks. To be fair, he has been admiring Hannibal’s audacity for years, but this is not a turn he expected the conversation to take.

“This is not usually how one treats those one likes.”

The look Hannibal gives Scipio is genuinely apologetic. “In other circumstances,” Hannibal says, “I might take you out to dinner.”

Scipio laughs out loud. He can’t help it.

“You're not afraid?” Hannibal asks.

Scipio wants to shake his head, but he doesn't dare. “Why would I be?”

Hannibal makes an expansive gesture with his spare hand, which encompasses the entire situation, but chiefly Scipio himself, on his knees before his rival with a gun pressed to his temple. “I could kill you.”

Scipio has learnt to trust his instincts. “You won't.”

 

iii.

“You know, when dancers are telling you to relax and have a bit of fun, you need to reconsider your life choices.”

Scipio hasn't spent a lot of time with the other dancers since he was accepted into the company. He spends most nights in the studio, perfecting his technique. He feels at home by the barre, his hand on the smooth wood, his body reflected back at him from the mirror. He doesn't need anyone: as long as he can dance, he wants to dance better than anyone.

“I'm not the only one still here,” he points out.

He senses the other man putting weight on the barre behind him, probably stretching his legs. “Yes, but you're here every night. Mind if I join you?”

Scipio still doesn't turn around, his entire focus on the slide of his right foot across the polished floor. _Tendu, and close. Tendu, and close_. “If you don't mind my music.” The cassette player by Scipio's bag is giving a crackly rendition of a Chopin waltz – not as good as a piano accompanist, but for Scipio's purposes, it is acceptable.

“It'll do.”

They work in sync all evening, barely looking at each other. Scipio becomes aware that his companion has long, elegant limbs, and that even his smallest jump seems to hang in the air for longer than should be possible. There’s a lightness and delicacy about his movements that Scipio has never seen before, a quality that other dancers spend their lives striving for.

Hannibal's _grande battements_ go a little higher than Scipio’s. Scipio always manages one more pirouette. Hannibal's arabesque forms a beautiful line from his outstretched arm to the toe of his raised leg; but Scipio's is poised for one more perfect second.

Scipio has always preferred to work alone, but in the back of his head, something says He'll be good for you, or maybe, You need someone like this.

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“I'm always here,” says Scipio.

***

It's the end of a rehearsal for _La Sylphide_ , and Hannibal is packing his bag, watching the two principal dancers go through the pas de deux from Act Two out of the corner of his eye.

““You could do it better,” somebody says behind him.

“Sorry?” Hannibal turns his head – it's Scipio, of course.

“She's very – technical,” he says. “She's a dancer, not a woodland sprite.”

“I'm not a woodland sprite.”

Scipio shrugs. “Could've fooled me.”

It's gratifying to know that Scipio has been watching Hannibal as Hannibal watches him. Sometimes their eyes catch in company class as they turn to do a barre exercise on the other side. Sometimes he can't risk a glance in the mirror to watch Scipio's steady, controlled fondus and developpes.

“You're...” Scipio goes on. “Fluid? Musical? You have lovely lines. You should give it a try.”

He waves a cassette in Hannibal's face. “Studio three is empty. We have hours before our call.”

It takes a moment for Hannibal to realise what Scipio is asking for. “I'm not a woman,” Hannibal tells Scipio.

“Since when did you do what people expect of you?”

As a dancer, Hannibal _is_ conventional: classically trained since childhood, quiet and disciplined in class, with the long lean figure and loose hips that company directors look for. But Scipio gives him  a look that he can't quite read. It niggles at the corners of his mind: something about it seems familiar.

The music starts unexpectedly, and it takes Hannibal a moment to realise that Scipio has pressed play on the tape player with his toe, and another couple of seconds to get himself together enough to bouree elegantly across the imaginary stage.

***

The _pas de deux_ from act two of _La Sylphide_ is not known for its technical technical difficulty, especially with Hannibal as the sylph not _en pointe_. There are none of the dazzling displays of virtuosity one sees in more modern ballets, but the ethereal quality of the part is something Hannibal's never been asked to produce as a male dancer. _Stronger_ , his teachers have always told him.  _More masculine. You’re a prince, remember?_  He can feel every wobble reminding him that he in not a creature of light and air, but he _likes_ the part, to his surprise. The point of ballet is to be harder than it appears.

He falls out of a pirouette inelegantly, and feels Scipio’s hand at his back keeping him steady: talent and guesswork can only take one so far, and Hannibal’s never danced this part before. The corner of Scipio's mouth twitches – almost a laugh – as Hannibal falls against him. The expression in his eyes is one Hannibal has not seen before, not in all their rehearsals and classes and late-night practices.

“Told you you’d do it better,” says Scipio.

Hannibal stands breathless where he is, Scipio’s hands on his shoulders still balancing him. It strikes him as a pity that there will never be a chance for the two of them perform a pas de deux on stage.

For half a second, he considers walking out of the studio, inviting Scipio to come with him. It’s lonely in his apartment, cooking dinner for one. But he’s spent all afternoon rehearsing for a performance that will never happen, and he has more serious practice to get to.

“Thanks,” he says instead. “We should do this again.”

Scipio grins. “I told you, I’m always here.”

 

**iv.**

There's a 10/10 in red ink at the top of Hannibal's lab report, and a note on the third page that says, “Excellent clear diagram”. Hannibal smiles grimly, satisfied. This is the final lab report of the year, and if this is indicative of his exam results, then he can be almost certain of being the dux of his year.

He would be certain already, if it weren't for one thing - one thorn in his side, one inkblot on the impeccable transcript of his education so far: Publius Cornelius Scipio. No matter how hard Hannibal studies, no matter how many extra lectures he listens to online, how many lunchtimes he spends discussing fine details of the curriculum with his teachers, Scipio seems to have no trouble keeping up.

Every time Scipio asks a question in class, it's sharp and on point. Every time he produces an essay, the English teacher passes it around as an example of exemplary work. Every maths problem he is called to solve on the whiteboard is neat, clear, and invariably, correct.

He doesn't object. In this rabble of half-baked minds, he and Scipio are the only ones going anywhere.

***

In the silence of the study hall, a whispered voice carries. “Name three causes of the French Revolution.”

“Rising cost of bread, government bankruptcy thanks to the war in America, the spread of Enlightenment ideals,” Scipio shoots back automatically. He knows that Hannibal knows the answer. “Testing me?”

“Know your enemy,” Hannibal says. No further explanation is forthcoming.

Scipio fills the silence. “Chemical formula of acetic acid?”

“C – H – three – C – O – O – H.” There's not the barest hesitation. “What year did Napoleon crown himself emperor?”

“1804.”

They quiz each other back and forth until, somewhere in the back row, someone hisses, “Get a room, boys.”

Scipio meets Hannibal's eyes, and the glint that he sees there surprises him. “We could go and get chips?”

There’s the barest hesitation before Hannibal shakes his head. “Now now,” he says. “In the middle of a practice chem paper.”

***

They're both called back to the school the next year, to give a speech to the coming matriculating class about developing good study habits, balancing work and school. Hannibal lets Scipio do the talking. It's only fair. His marks were ultimately better.

“Any questions?”

Somewhere at the back of the hall, a student raises her hand.

Scipio points. “Yes, you up the back there?”

“How did you keep yourself motivated to study so hard?”

Nobody else would notice, but Hannibal sees the secret smile that curls the corner of his rival's lips.

“Oh, that was easy,” Scipio says. “I just had to keep up with Hannibal.”

 

**v.**

The bar is almost empty: Scipio is drying a handful of remaining glasses, and at the far end of the bar sits a man, head resting on his elbow, a half finished drink in front of him.

“I'm closing up now, mate,” Scipio says absently. It's been a long night. He leans over and turns off the stereo; the absence of music seems louder, strangely, than its presences, and it's a few seconds before the faint sound of a newsreader on the wall-mounted television filters through to him.

The customer nods, but shows no sign of moving. Scipio has the impression that, given the option, he would sit there quietly for another few hours, at least.

He sighs, and clears his throat. The man is a regular, and one Scipio likes; he doesn’t want to make him leave.

“Sorry,” says the customer. His eyes are fixed on the TV. “Could you turn that up?”

Scipio reaches for the remote, and the volume increases. “On Tuesday, after two thousand, one hundred and thirty one years, modern Rome and Carthage finally signed a peace treaty bringing the Punic Wars to an end.”

Their eyes meet almost involuntarily, and the only thing Scipio can possibly liken this feeling to is a flash of lightning.

“The treaty and an accompanying pact of friendship and cooperation were signed in a government villa by Ugo Vetere, the mayor of Rome, and Chedli Klibi, mayor of modern Carthage, which was rebuilt over the centuries on the ruined site in North Africa.”

“Last drink's on the house,” says Scipio. He feels like he's searching for the last piece of a puzzle. There's something bone-achingly familiar about this man, something more than just selling him drinks after work.

“It's over,” says the customer, as though the words are coming of their own volition.

“Yes, I'm closing up.” It isn’t what the man meant, and Scipio knows it.

He wanders down to the end of the bar, where his customer sits, carefully casual. The man has glass green eyes, and Scipio has the idea that in the past they've been brown, and been blue, and that he knows them as well as his own.

“We could go out for dinner.”

The memories hit Scipio like a blow to his head; for a moment, he has to steady himself, hands on the bar. Hannibal swallows the last of his drink.

“Do you know,” Scipio says, “for once, I think we could.”

**Author's Note:**

> Helpful bits and pieces:
> 
> The mayors of Carthage and Rome did in fact sign a peace treaty in 1985. http://www.saudiaramcoworld.com/issue/198503/delenda.est.carthago.htm
> 
> This is the pas de deux from act two of La Sylphide:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Mz7G4TNg6g  
> And a glossary of ballet terms, just in case: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_ballet
> 
> The Guy whose wedding Scipio mentions in part ii., although it's neither particularly important nor particularly clear, real historical Scipio's long-time friend, Gaius Laelius.


End file.
